


No One Less Than A Saint

by A_Perpetual_Hiraeth



Category: The Saint (TV)
Genre: 1970s, Crime Fighting, Gen, London, Rescue Missions, Resentment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-10-12 12:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Perpetual_Hiraeth/pseuds/A_Perpetual_Hiraeth
Summary: Simon Templar contemplates his life choices when someone from his past needs help.





	1. Divine Intervention

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished watching the 1960’s TV show The Saint with Roger Moore and loved it. Before finding this show, I’d mainly known Roger Moore as James Bond. While I liked him as Bond, to me Simon Templar is a superior role. He’s such a fun character!
> 
> This fic might be a bit dark for what the show would have allowed. But then again, the show did have some intense moments.
> 
> Even though he usually has a double interest, in this story Simon comes to someone’s aid without the promise of a reward (I’m not spoiling much by making this known). There were a number of times in the show when he did things for others purely to help them (“The Golden Journey” and “The Scales of Justice,” to give some examples), and I love that aspect of him. He’s an outlaw with a heart. :) 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Simon Templar or Claud Eustace Teal (who'll show up later). They belong to Leslie Charteris, although this fic is based entirely on the TV versions of them. All of the other characters, however, are mine.

_London, 1970_

She was in trouble, Simon was sure of that. He’d been watching her all night from across the pub—her movements, her facial expressions. When the gentleman sitting next to her asked her if he could buy her a drink, she declined offhandedly and glanced around as if waiting for someone else to show up. Simon could tell she was anxious. She couldn’t stop fidgeting. 

She was fairly young—somewhere in her thirties, he’d say—and quite attractive, but what drew him to her was that she was vaguely familiar to him. He was sure he’d encountered her before, but he couldn’t seem to pinpoint when or where. 

It was nearing nine o’clock when, oddly enough, the bartender handed her a slip of paper. She looked at it, breathed deeply, and then left the pub. 

Simon trailed her outside. The air smelled like wet pavement from an earlier rainstorm and there was a slight but cold breeze. Simon stood next to the pub’s door and watched as she checked her wristwatch, and then pulled a cigarette from her purse. 

Looking straight ahead, she spoke to him: “What do you want, Simon?” 

She had an American accent. 

Gradually, Simon stepped toward her. “Lots of things, but right now I’d settle for knowing what kind of trouble you’re in,” he said. 

Her cigarette hanging from her lips, she reached back into her purse, no doubt for a lighter. Simon took his own out of his coat pocket, flicked it, and held it out to her. She lit the cigarette’s tip and took a drag. “You always were perceptive,” she said as she exhaled the smoke. 

“One of my many talents,” he responded. 

“Is showing up when you’re not wanted another one?” 

“Ironically, I find that when I’m not wanted is often when I’m most needed.” 

She gave a humorless laugh and then crossed her arms, shivering against the wind, and looked at him. “You don’t remember me, do you?” 

“Should I?” he asked coyly. 

“Heh, of course you don’t,” she scoffed. “The people whose lives you ruin are faceless and nameless to you.” 

She took another drag on her cigarette. While she did so, Simon lit one of his own, which he kept in a metal case in his inside coat pocket. He waited for her to continue. “Does the name Walter Mitchell ring any bells for you?” 

And suddenly, it hit him. He knew who she was and where he’d seen her before. Her name was Blanche Mitchell. He’d met her in the year of 1958, when he’d been visiting Boston. He’d been in his early thirties, she in her mid-twenties. They’d hit it off quite well in the beginning. Unfortunately it was short-lived. Her father, Walter Mitchell, was a pretty big-name banker in Boston at the time; he was also a swindler and a cheat who had a knack for altering legally binding contracts, lying about customer payments, and forcing families into foreclosure. Simon learned of this when a married couple tried taking Walter to court. The case was thrown out and the couple left the courthouse discouraged. 

Coincidentally, however, during the following night Walter Mitchell’s bank was mysteriously robbed, despite having a decent alarm system. The police found no leads. What they _did_ find—lying out in the open of all things—was enough concrete documentation to put Mitchell behind bars. Not long after his headline-making conviction, his bank shut down. 

“Oh, yes,” Simon replied, nodding at the memory. “How is old Walter? Enjoying his extended stay at the Massachusetts Federal Correctional Institute?” 

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I haven’t spoken to him in years. I’ve been here.” 

“And why _are_ you here?” 

After a drag on her cigarette, she answered, “My husband was from here.” 

“Was?” 

“He passed away three weeks ago.” 

“Oh. I’m very sorry.” 

“No you’re not.” Blanche narrowed her eyes at him accusingly. “Tell me, Simon, did you ever second-guess what you were doing? Did you lose any sleep wondering how it would affect me?” 

“Truthfully? No.” 

“Can’t say I’m surprised. I suppose not much does make you lose sleep, does it?” 

The edge of Simon’s lips curved into a semi-smile as he replied, “Too much coffee before bedtime. And people like your father, naturally.” 

“Well,” Blanche spat, “perhaps _this_ will. After my father was sent away, I was left destitute. In case you forgot, my mother had died years before so I had no immediate family left. I inherited my father’s house but had to sell it, for less than it was worth. I didn’t have money for an apartment, or anything, so I took to the streets . . . selling myself. I had to _sell_ my body, for _years_ , because of you.” 

Simon couldn’t help but grimace. Although he’d never felt an ounce of remorse over robbing her father and exposing him for the crook he was, he did feel sorry for her, having to resort to self-degradation once her world had been turned upside down. Her father may have been a criminal, but she’d been an innocent and hadn’t deserved the pain she was subjected to. 

“I hope you think about that, Simon Templar,” she said acidly. “You know, when I saw you in there”—she gestured towards the pub—“I thought it was a stroke of rotten luck. Of all the people I could run into at a time like this, it _had_ to be you. But on second thought, I’m glad. I’m glad I got to see you tonight, after all this time. I’m glad I got to tell you this. I won’t get another chance.” She tossed her partially smoked cigarette into the parking lot and then, turning to leave, said, “Have a nice life.” 

Simon tossed away his own partially smoked cigarette and followed her as she walked briskly to her car. “Keep away from me, Simon,” she said, flustered. 

He leapt in front of her before she could open the driver’s side door. “Get out of my way,” she demanded. When he didn’t budge, she added, “Please. I have somewhere I need to be.” She checked her watch again. “I can’t be late.” 

“At this hour?” Simon raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “Now kindly move before I kick you in the shin.” 

Simon stepped to the side, opening her car door for her. Without a word, she got in. As the engine revved to life, Simon walked around the front of the car and opened the front passenger’s side door. “And just what do you think you’re doing?” Blanche asked. 

“Conducting a divine intervention,” he replied nonchalantly as he closed the door after he’d gotten in. “So where are we going?” 

“ _I_ am going to an important meeting—” she began, but Simon said, “Then we best get going” before she could tell him to get out of her car, and she had neither the time nor the energy to argue with him. So instead she said, “I hope you’ve made funeral arrangements” and started driving. 

Simon was unfazed by her comment. “Feel free to continue your story,” he told her. 

She glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“I’m serious,” he assured her. “Believe it or not, I do want to know what’s happened to you.” 

“Careful,” she said. “One day someone might start thinking you actually care about others.” 

Simon waited, looking at her. Eventually she sighed and continued where she’d left off: “I hated doing it. Selling myself, I mean. Every time I did, I hated myself a little bit more. You can’t imagine how often I thought of ending it all.” She paused, making a turn. “Then one day—like in a fairytale, cliché as that might sound—this Englishman showed up and took a liking to me. He paid for my company but instead of taking me to some motel room, he took me to a nice restaurant and bought me dinner. We talked for a long time. He was so kind and gentle. That very night he asked me to marry him. He was widowed, with a young daughter—Amelia—and he was lonely. I knew it was crazy, marrying someone I’d just met, but it couldn’t have been worse than the life I was living. And besides, I didn’t think anyone else would want me. This was my one shot at being respectable. So, I said yes.” She paused again, glancing in her rearview mirror, her expression vexed. There was a car behind them, gaining on them quickly. She slowed down and the car sped past. She exhaled a relieved breath. “I’m not sure he loved me,” she went on, “but he treated me well and that was enough. He bought me jewelry and nice clothes, and he gave me a real home again. It was nice. And Amelia—oh, Amelia—what would I have done without her? I love her like I would my own child.” 

She stole another glance at Simon to see if he was still listening. When she saw that he was indeed listening, and intently, she continued: “I eventually learned that my husband was involved with some bad people. I don’t know all the details—I didn’t dare ask—but I overheard a conversation he had on the phone, something about smuggling contraband. He seemed worried. I think . . . I think part of the reason he married me was so Amelia could have someone to look after her if anything happened to him.” 

“Why didn’t he go to the police?” Simon asked. 

“He did,” she replied. “That’s why he’s dead.” 

Simon nodded, contemplating. “These people you’re meeting, do you know who they are?” 

“No.” 

“Did they say why they wanted you to meet them?” 

“What do criminals usually want? Money.” 

“How much?” 

Blanche hesitated before she answered. “Fifty-thousand pounds, from some deal my husband made. Guess he couldn’t pay up. They came to collect, he went to the police and ended up dead for his trouble, and now they’re asking me for it. Yesterday I received a phone call telling me to go to that pub. The man who called said I’d be given instructions on where to go from there. I take it you saw the bartender give me that note?” 

Again, Simon nodded. 

“It was from them. It said to come alone, with the money, or else . . .” Her voice cracked. “Or else they’d do something horrible to me and Amelia. I’m not afraid of dying, but I _won’t_ let them hurt her.” 

Simon reached his hand over to place it on her shoulder but then thought better of it and stopped. He surmised that she didn’t particularly want his comfort, even if she was confiding in him. “I take it you don’t have the money,” he said. 

“Of course I don’t. I don’t even know where I’d get that kind of money. And even if I could get it, I don’t exactly have the time now.” She tried to inhale a deep breath but it hitched in her throat as a sob forced its way out of her. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she admitted. “But I have to meet with them. I don’t want to make them angry.” 

“Let me help you, Blanche,” Simon said softly. 

“For how much?” she asked him, her voice tinged with indignation. “You always have a price.” 

“Not this time.” 

She shot a surprised, somewhat dubious, look in his direction. “You hated my father. Why would you help me?” 

“Children are not their fathers, Blanche. And it is indirectly my fault that you’re in this mess. I want to help you fix it.” 

“Not so ‘saintly’ after all, huh,” she jeered. 

Simon didn’t reply. 

“Have you ever thought of stopping?” she asked, after taking another turn. 

“Stopping?” 

“This life you lead. Have you ever thought of going straight?” 

“I’d consider it if crime didn’t pay so well. And if the world didn’t need people like me.” 

***

Eventually Blanche pulled up to a warehouse on the outskirts of London. Simon had seen it a few times but had never gone inside. It had been abandoned for decades and was quite weathered. After she parked, Blanche grabbed her purse. Simon could see she was terribly anxious; she was trembling. “I have to go alone,” she said. “Those were the instructions. If . . . if I don’t come back out . . .” 

“I’ll be right behind you,” Simon told her. Before she could protest, he added, “Don’t worry, they won’t see me. I haven’t made a name for myself by being careless.” 

She seemed unsure but didn’t respond. Shouldering her purse, she opened her door and exited her car. 

Simon waited until she disappeared into the building, then got out of the car himself. Quickly, he surveyed the building to see if there were any lookouts—anyone to alert the people inside of unexpected “visitors.” When he saw none, he crouched next to the front entrance and peered inside. 

Blanche’s back was to him and in front of her were four men: one dressed in a yellow turtleneck and brown corduroy pants; one in an oilskin jacket and jeans, armed with a rifle; one in a trench coat; and one in a business suit and tie. They were all middle-aged except for the one in the turtleneck, who looked to be in his early twenties. 

“Nice to finally meet you, Blanche,” the one in the trench coat said. “You’re even prettier than I imagined.” 

“Do you have the money?” the one with the rifle grunted. 

Blanche stammered. “N-no.” 

The one in the trench coat shook his head and said, “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Blanche, my dear . . . after what happened to Roy? I’m hurt. I really am. I expected better.” 

Simon surmised that Roy was the name of Blanche’s husband. He vaguely recalled an article in the newspaper about a man named Roy Bateman who was found floating in a river. His throat had been cut. The story had been printed about three weeks ago. 

“This deal you and Roy made,” Blanche said shakily, “it was between you and him. I had no part in it. Please, why can’t you leave me alone? I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I won’t go to the police.” 

The man in the trench coat chuckled. “Oh, I know you won’t.” He turned to his partner in the turtleneck and said, “Show her.” 

The man in the turtleneck approached her, taking a Polaroid photo out of his pants pocket and showing it to her. Blanche dropped to her knees. “No!” she wailed. “Please don’t hurt her!” 

Simon knew instantly that the photo was of Amelia. 

“She is lovely,” the man in the trench coat said. “She looks so much like Roy. She misses him dearly, you know. When my friends here picked her up from her grandmother’s, they told her she’d see him soon. She went right along with them. Her grandmother wasn’t so keen on the idea, of course. She needed some . . . persuading.” 

Blanche was sobbing. “Oh, please! Oh, _please_!” 

“There’s really no reason to cry,” the trench coat donning man continued. “This is really very simple. All you had to do was deliver some money. That’s it. Now how hard is that?” 

“I can get you the money,” Blanche said in desperation. “Just give me another chance. Please!” 

The man in the trench coat turned to the man in the business suit. They shared a laugh and then the former stooped in front of her and said, “You know what? Seeing as how you’re Roy’s wife and you didn’t skip town, I’m going to be lenient. See, I’m a reasonable guy. You work with me, I’ll work with you. I’ll give you another chance.” 

Gradually, Blanche’s sobs ceased. “Thank you,” she said softly. 

“Now, mind you,” he went on, “there will still have to be consequences for not having the money. See, while I’m reasonable, I’m also a man of my word, so I can’t let you go unpunished.” 

“No, not Amelia!” Blanche cried, erupting into another onslaught of tears. She slumped forward. Her tears began falling to the floor. 

“No, no, no, she’s safe and sound. For now. But as for you, hmm . . .” He placed his forefinger underneath Blanche’s chin and tilted her head up. “Seeing as how you’re so pretty, I _really_ don’t want to ruin your face.” He then smiled. “I think I’ll take a finger.” He stood and turned towards the man in the oilskin jacket, saying, “Have at it, Tony!” 

The man in the oilskin jacket—Tony—laid his rifle down and pulled from one of his jacket pockets a switchblade. “With pleasure,” he said through a grin. “Which one do you want, or should I pick?” 

Blanche screamed and jumped to her feet. The man in the trench coat reached to grab her arm but she slapped him in the face, and before he could try to grab her again she darted for the entrance. 

Simon, who had been about to rush inside, saw his opportunity. Flanking the entrance way, he waited. The man in the suit was the first to follow Blanche outside. Simon hit him in the back of the neck using a martial arts chop, sending him reeling forward. The next was the young turtleneck-clad one who, once noticing Simon’s presence, faced Simon with his fists raised. Given his shorter stature, he aimed for Simon’s chin but Simon dodged it, then sent his own fist into the young man’s cheekbone. Just then, the one in the trench coat—who Simon was fairly certain was the leader of this operation—came up from behind and locked his arm around Simon’s neck, trying to strangle him. Simon wriggled for a moment in an attempt to pry himself free. When that failed, he leaned as far forward as he could, flipping the man over his back. Immediately after the man collided with the asphalt, there was a sharp burst of pain in the back of Simon’s head, no doubt from the butt of a rifle, and he fell over as well. 

“Wait, don’t kill him. Not yet. That’s Simon Templar,” was the last thing he heard before losing consciousness.


	2. The Rules of Being A Saint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon Templar contemplates his life choices when someone from his past needs help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second and final chapter of my Simon Templar story! As I said in my previous A/N, this is purely based on Roger Moore’s version of the character. I have never read any of Leslie Charteris’ books, so I apologize if something here doesn’t align with them. One thing that intrigued me about the show is how shrouded in mystery Simon is. Practically nothing is known about his past or personal life, like where he grew up, what happened to his parents, how he fell into crime, etc. I decided to write a fic that answers some of these questions. :)
> 
> Also, concerning Teal’s role in the story, I have a pretty rudimentary understanding of police procedures—especially when it comes to law enforcement in countries outside the USA—but I did my best here, and the way I figure it, The Saint wasn’t exactly known for its stark realism. :) 
> 
> Lastly, this chapter mentions Simon once thwarting a plot to kill the English queen. That was derived from one of Charteris’ books—which I’ve done some research on—where it’s stated that Simon once received a royal pardon for saving the king; however, since this story is based on the show, which is set in the 1960’s and 1970’s, I changed “king” to “queen.”
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Simon Templar was no stranger to a beating, but spending six hours in a small, dark and dank basement, sluggish from narcotics injections, and routinely on the receiving end of punches and kicks, wasn’t exactly how he’d envisioned spending a Friday night. The narcotics had been to prevent him from fighting back, and they were working. Simon could barely move; he was so lethargic. 

The man called Tony rammed his knuckles into Simon’s jaw, the force reeling Simon backwards. He pivoted as he fell, landing on his hands and knees. Tony then sent his boot into Simon’s ribs. Simon collapsed. He lay face-down for a moment, his eyes closed and breath short, then pushed himself back into a crawling position, only to get a second kick in the side. This kick was harder, knocking Simon over onto his back. Tony bent down, darting out of reach as Simon’s barely functional arm swung at him. Tony laughed. He grabbed Simon by the collar of his shirt and punched him. Then punched him again. And again. And again. And again. 

When he finished, Simon’s face was on fire. 

Tony stepped back, chuckling as he rubbed his knuckles, and said, “Stand up. Come on, stand up like a man.” 

Slowly, his limbs wobbly, Simon brought himself to his feet. It was at this time that two other crooks—the one in the turtleneck and the one in the business suit—entered the cell, carrying between them a large pail. 

Tony’s fist went sailing into Simon’s stomach, bowling Simon over, and then the two others approached and threw the contents of the pail—freezing water—onto him. He fell to the floor once again, soaking. The room was already cold but the wetness made it worse. The crook in the business suit told Simon that if he was lucky he’d freeze to death, and then all three of them exited the room, laughing, leaving Simon aching and shivering. 

*** 

When the hallucinations came, they were quite real. First there was his mother, just as she’d looked the last time he saw her, when he was a child. She was crying into her hands as she’d done on many occasions during his childhood. He’d hated it. It always made his stomach ache. At the sight of it now, he felt his insides twist into a familiar knot. He knew she wasn’t really there, but still, she looked so real—so tangible—that he couldn’t resist speaking to her: “Mother? Mother? Please don’t cry. Please . . . please don’t.” 

When she showed no sign of acknowledgment, Simon rubbed his eyes. “I need to get out of here,” he thought. He looked around him. His vision was blurry but he could tell that the basement he was in only had one door, which was locked from the outside. He’d have to fight his way out the next time it was opened—that is, if he could muster enough strength. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Despite his situation, he was awfully drowsy, no doubt from the narcotics. 

His thoughts fought through the mental fog. He wondered what happened to Blanche. Hopefully he’d slowed the crooks down enough to allow her to get away. He was confident that he had, but that begged the question: Where did she go? She wouldn’t run away, not so long as Amelia was being held hostage. And he highly doubted that she’d gone back home; they knew where she lived. Perhaps she’d gone to the police? Simon hoped that if she did, she’d be careful and what happened to her husband would not happen to her. 

After a while, the door was unlocked and opened and the man in the trench coat walked in, followed by Tony who was brandishing his rifle and had it pointed at Simon. The man in the trench coat was holding a syringe. Simon knew what was in it. 

“Medication time,” the man in the trench coat said, smiling. “The infamous Simon Templar, at my mercy. When I find Blanche I’ll have to remember to thank her before I kill her. Normally I hate when my plans go up in smoke, but this is an exception. I’ve wanted to be face-to-face with you for a long time.” 

“I’m flattered,” Simon replied snidely. 

“You killed my brother, you know.” 

“If he was anything like you, I don’t doubt it.” 

Slowly, the man in the trench coat took a few steps towards Simon. “Well, not directly, but you got him killed. The name was Frank Rosado.” 

Simon recalled the name, and the person. Frank had been a young man at the time of his death, in 1962. Simon had run into him on a ship sailing from South America to England. He’d met him on deck and they’d spoken to one another. Frank had said he and his mother were going to England to start a new life, and Simon had told him some things about living in England. Simon could tell the young man was nervous; he assumed it was the natural apprehension of traveling to a different country . . . until he learned that the young man had been conned into taking part in a drug smuggling operation. He didn’t want to. He’d done it out of desperation. Simon honestly couldn’t blame him, knowing all too well the need to resort to crime to survive. However, there had been two other smugglers onboard, both far more dangerous than he, and when their plans were discovered (Simon wasn’t sure how; a passenger must have seen or heard something and reported it) and the ship’s guards tried to apprehend them, one of them—a tall, burly man—grabbed a random girl and put a gun to her head. Frank tried to coax him into letting her go, but he was having none of it. Simon, who was present, decided the situation could use some “saintly interference.” 

But he should have been more careful. He should have handled it differently. 

He snuck up behind the big man and hit him in the side of the neck with a martial arts chop. The man released the girl but as he fell, he pulled the trigger on his gun. The bullet hit Frank square in the chest. 

His mother cradled him as he died, sobbing into his hair. 

Simon looked up at the man in the trench coat and said, “I remember him. He was a good man. He never wanted anyone to get hurt. I don’t think he’d want you to hurt anyone either.” 

“My brother was weak. God rest him, he was my brother and I loved him, but he was weak.” 

“Unlike you,” Simon snarled. “So strong you kidnap a little girl.” 

“Shut up!” The man in the trench coat stepped closer. “Give me your arm.” 

The man called Tony stepped closer as well, the barrel of his rifle aimed firmly at Simon. Simon’s only two choices were to allow another narcotic injection or be shot. Glaring defiantly at the man in the trench coat, he extended his arm. As the fluid was pumped into his vein, a wave of lethargy overcame him. Before he succumbed to sleep, he heard the man in the trench coat say, “By the way, I’m a firm believer that a man should know who’s killing him. My name’s Lenny. Lenny Rosado.” 

*** 

The first thing Blanche did after getting in her car and driving away from the warehouse was find a secluded spot and park. She was next to an old cemetery, her car partially hidden from the road by trees. She was hyperventilating and had to take a moment to calm herself down. Once her breathing returned to normal, she started to cry again. She leaned over, pressed her forehead to the top of the steering wheel, and choked out chest-racking sobs. 

They had Simon. She’d seen him get knocked out as she sped away. God only knew what they were doing to him. They may have even killed him by now. Suddenly, she felt a surge of guilt at the realization that Simon could be dead on account of her. Plus, they still had Amelia. What if they did something to her out of anger? 

“I have to do something,” she thought. But what? What could she do? 

Sitting back, she reached into her purse and took out a cigarette and lighter. It occurred to her as she did so that smoking was about the worst thing she could do at an urgent time like this, but she needed to steady her nerves. She needed to think. 

The only thing she could think of to do was go to the police. All other options were unfeasible. She couldn’t confront these men by herself, she absolutely would not run—not without Amelia—and there was no way she could come up with the money they wanted. 

Once she finished her cigarette and felt her nerves were steadied enough, she started her car back up and drove in the direction of Scotland Yard. 

As she walked into the building, she remembered the last time she was there. She’d been called in shortly after Roy’s death to answer some questions. She’d brought Amelia, who had been inconsolable, with her, and a policeman tried to comfort her as the questioning took place. The Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, Claud Eustace Teal, had told her that right before his death Roy had reported that some people had threatened his life. He didn’t know who they were—only that they were, for some reason unknown to him, asking for fifty-thousand pounds and said if he didn’t pay it, he’d be “meeting his maker.” Teal asked her if she knew anything about that. She hesitated before answering, wondering if she should tell him about the phone call she’d overheard, where Roy discussed smuggling contraband with someone. The last thing she wanted to do was obstruct justice but if she admitted to knowing her husband was involved in illegal activity, which Roy himself had obviously not mentioned, she’d undoubtedly be asked why she’d neglected to report it. After a moment’s pause, she opted to lie, praying she wouldn’t regret it later. “No,” she said, “I was not aware of that.” 

Teal seemed a bit doubtful. “You sound unsure,” he remarked. 

“I’m sure,” she replied, her tone as matter-of-fact as she could manage. 

Teal accepted that. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “when I had one of my policemen follow him home, there was an incident. We don’t know all the details, but it looked like someone shot one of Roy’s tires, then shot my officer dead and took Roy. The rest you know.” 

Blanche nodded. Yes, a search team had looked for Roy, and days later had found him in a river with his throat gashed. 

A sob escaped Blanche at the memory and she thought to herself, “How did my life come to this? At least when I was on the streets, things were simple. Maybe that was better.” Then she thought of Amelia—how much joy Amelia had brought her—and thought, “No. I’d choose Amelia over anything.” 

“Mrs. Bateman,” the front desk clerk said as Blanche approached. “How are—?” He paused when he noticed her tear-streaked cheeks and red eyes. Instead he asked, “What’s wrong?” 

“I need to speak to Chief Inspector Teal, immediately,” she responded. 

The clerk got on his phone and called someone, telling them that “Mrs. Blanche Bateman was here” and “urgently needed to speak to the Chief Inspector.” 

A policeman arrived a moment later and escorted her to Chief Inspector Teal’s office—the same office she’d been taken to before. Chief Inspector Teal sat slumped over his desk, chewing gum and reading over documents in a file folder. When he looked up, he closed the folder and gestured for her to take a seat across from him. “So, you wanted to speak to me?” he said. 

“They’ve got Simon and Amelia!” she cried in desperation. 

Teal’s eyes widened. “Who’s got Amelia?” he asked. Then, a suspicious expression on his face, he added, “Simon who?” 

“Simon Templar!” 

Teal rubbed his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?” he moaned. 

“It’s all my fault!” Blanche went on, her voice breaking, and then, through tears, told him everything—everything from the overheard phone call to when she drove away from the warehouse, leaving Simon unconscious and at the mercy of the four crooks. 

“He could be dead by now—he and Amelia both,” she said once she finished telling her story, dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief Teal had handed her. 

Teal was tempted to counter her with reassurances but couldn’t bring himself to. For all either of them knew, Simon and Amelia _could_ have been dead (although the idea of Simon dying felt rather bizarre to him—demoralizing, even) and he didn’t want to get her hopes up only for them to be shattered later. As a detective, he had to be logical and realistic. “Perhaps,” he told her. “But one way or another, we _will_ find them.” 

*** 

Simon’s second hallucination was of himself as a child, rolling marbles across the floor. Simon remembered doing that frequently. He’d been born into a loving but impoverished family, and hadn’t had much in the way of toys. He would often stare into toy shop windows for long periods of time and envy the children inside whose parents bought them train sets and model cars and airplanes. He’d known better than to ask his own parents for something like that, as his mother would look at him painfully and have to explain to him that they couldn’t afford it, and he hated causing her distress. He’d been a sensitive child. 

He’d committed his first theft when he was nine years old. To this day he couldn’t imagine what had possessed him to do it, but he’d felt horribly afterwards. The item had been a loaf of bread from a local bakery. As he’d sprinted home with it tucked beneath his overcoat, he’d been terrified that at any moment a policeman would spot him, sense that he was up to no good, and stop him in the street. Once he reached home and was confident that he _wouldn’t_ be getting in trouble with the law, he started to fear the wrath of God instead. He’d been raised Anglican, and though he and his parents weren’t regular church-goers, he had been taught his ten commandments and he was well aware “thou shalt not steal” was one of them. To make matters worse, he lied to his parents about it. When they asked him where the loaf of bread had come from, he told them a kindly man had given it to him and they believed him. He spent most of that night crying into his pillow, begging God’s forgiveness. 

Not long afterward, however, he did it again, this time swiping a fish from a fish market that had been wrapped in paper. He realized as he walked home, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible, that although he knew it was wrong and felt guilty about it, it excited him. He felt like the character Robin Hood, stealing to provide for those he cared about, rebelling against the rules of the harsh and unfair world. He rationalized his behavior by telling himself that he was only doing it out of self-preservation and love for his parents, and that if only the world wasn’t so unjust, he wouldn’t need to resort to these measures. 

Over time it became easier for him, and instead of limiting himself to needful items, he began stealing toys, telling himself that it wasn’t right for other children to have toys while he didn’t. 

When he was eleven, his father contracted a bad case of pneumonia and died. This devastated his mother and, unable to cope, she took her own life. Simon remembered clearly the last time he saw her alive: she’d kissed his forehead once he’d nestled into bed and said, softly, “Never forget that I love you.” The following morning she was found hanging from a tree branch not far from the flat where she and Simon lived. 

Now an orphan, Simon decided he did not care for the world or anyone in it. He was placed in an orphanage, and while there, made no attempt at friendship with any of the other children. If one of them spoke to him, he made it a point to let them know in no uncertain terms to leave him alone. Eventually the other children ignored him, and he preferred it that way. 

He continued to steal, which had become habitual for him. He found a strange sort of solace in it. In his adolescent years, he gravitated from stealing items to stealing money. He would pinch coins and pounds out of women’s purses and men’s wallets, and hide the loot beneath his mattress. By the time he left the orphanage, he’d accumulated quite a stash. 

At the age of nineteen, he moved into his own flat and got a job as a newspaper editor. He found the work dreadfully dull, although most of the stories he edited covered the aftermath of the Second World War. It was during this time that he committed his first major robbery. He stole twenty-thousand pounds from a bank—the same bank his parents had used. He didn’t know much about it except that his mother had once pleaded with one of the tellers and was told, in essence, that nothing could be done. He had been with her at the time, holding her hand, watching her cry. He’d been too young to understand the details of the conversation, but he remembered feeling a burning resentment towards the teller. How dare the sod make his mother cry! 

He decided, somewhat spontaneously, to leave a calling card. As a kindly child, he was sometimes referred to as a “little godsend” or a “little angel” or a “saint,” which he’d thought was humorous since his initials were S.T., the abbreviation for “saint.” He took a piece of paper and a pen, and on the paper drew a stick figure with a halo over its head, and next to it put the letters “S.T.” 

The following day, much to his amusement, his robbery made the front page. The authorities—among them Claud Eustace Teal, then a Sergeant—were calling the mysterious perpetrator “the Saint” and thus far had no leads but were conducting a thorough investigation. The news article asked, “Is this the beginning of a series of thefts?” Simon thought to himself, “You bet it is.” 

Shortly after the robbery, Simon bought himself a pistol, which he taught himself to shoot, a pack of cigarettes, and a Volvo P1800. He moved into a nicer flat and quit his job at the paper. He later started to frequent a boxing ring and had some of the boxers teach him moves, then joined a martial arts class. He figured if he was going to be a criminal, he would have to be able to defend himself in a fight. Though he never considered himself a combat expert, he could certainly hold his own. 

His thievery continued, and he was not particular about who he stole from. Each person he encountered he viewed as a potential target. Eventually he journeyed overseas, booking flights to the Americas, to various Asian countries, and to countries in Europe. He became a regular globe-trotter, and brought his criminality with him. For every theft he committed, he left behind a haloed stick figure drawing with the initials S.T., and whenever the guilt came creeping into him—as it occasionally did—he quelled it by justifications: the world had been cruel to him, and thus he owed it nothing. 

Over time he gained near worldwide notoriety. Law enforcement throughout most of the Western world, and a good bit of the Eastern, had heard of “the Saint.” Eventually his real identity was discovered, as he’d expected it to be. One can only hide behind a symbol for so long. Claud Eustace Teal, who rose from sergeant to inspector, and then to chief inspector, became well-acquainted with him . . . and made it a personal mission to put him behind bars. He never could though. No policemen _ever_ could. Although they knew who was responsible when a robbery took place and Simon so happened to be visiting the area, they could never prove his culpability. There’d been a few close calls, but Simon had always managed to weasel his way out of the judicial system’s clutches. 

He wasn’t bothered that people knew his face. If anything, he reveled in the fame. He even had a custom-made license plate put on his Volvo that said “ST1.” 

What he would refer to as his “reform” took place in the mid-1950’s. It was a gradual process, encompassing a great deal of introspection. It began with the royal pardon he was granted—much to Teal’s chagrin—for thwarting a plot to kill the queen. Once on the receiving end of genuine gratitude and even praise, he began to reflect on his life as a common thief. He started to feel that crippling guilt that had overwhelmed him after his very first theft. Temporarily he even considered a complete cessation of crime, but, given how accustomed he’d become to his comfortable lifestyle, he decided against it. He did, however, resolve to make a significant change: rather than steal indiscriminately and solely for himself, he would focus his efforts on those in need and only target “ungodly” people—that is, people who mistreated others. He would be a modern-day Robin Hood and “even the playing field,” so to speak, between the haves and have nots . . . keeping a small portion for himself of course, as a fee for his services. 

He’d found it quite rewarding, and yet, as he watched his younger self innocently roll marbles across the floor, he was overcome with a desire to wrap his arms around the boy and beg him to _hold on_ to his innocence. He wanted to tell him that life was and would always be painful, and that it was okay to be hurt, scared, and confused but it was never worth compromising himself. Simon’s eyes brimmed with tears as his childhood self looked up at him. They held each other’s gaze for what felt like a long time, and there seemed to be a silent reconciliation between them—a breaking down of the wall between the boy he’d once been and the man he was now. The boy smiled at him, though it was a somewhat sad smile, and he smiled in return. 

Despite being known almost the world over as “the Saint,” Simon had never been a very religious man. Having seen so much suffering, and experienced his fair share of it, he more often than not questioned religious faith. But if there was one thing his personal exploits had shown him and he could say with certainty that he did believe, it was that everything happened for a reason. Too many people had walked into his life at just the right moment, and too many situations had (almost miraculously) worked themselves out, for him to put stock in happenstance. And in that he took comfort. He took solace in the conviction that his life choices, disreputable though they were, served a greater purpose. 

“It’ll be alright,” he told his younger self. “It’ll hurt for a while, and you’ll be confused for a while, but you’ll find your way. You’ll see the world and have adventures and help a lot of people. Most importantly, you’ll help a lot of people. You’ll be like Robin Hood. You remember Robin Hood? People needed him. They’ll need you too. They’ll always need their Robin Hoods.” 

With that, Simon’s young self disappeared. Shortly thereafter, Lenny and Tony—again brandishing his rifle which he pointed at Simon—entered the room. “You look tired, Simon. Long night?” Lenny said, smiling. “Don’t worry, it’s about to get shorter.” Facing Simon, he bent over, his smile widening. “You know what the first rule of being a saint is?” 

Simon didn’t respond—merely glowered up at him. 

“You have to be dead.” Lenny stood up straight and then continued: “My initial plan was to have you slowly beaten to death, but now, thanks to your new found friend, I’m going to have to make this quick.” 

“So Blanche went to the police,” Simon thought. They’d probably seen the warehouse by now and were searching for the four crooks, who they no doubt had descriptions of. 

Lenny turned towards Tony and said, “Shoot him.” 

Tony cocked his rifle and secured the butt of it against his shoulder. 

“Come closer,” Simon said before he could pull the trigger. 

“What?” Lenny asked, taken aback. 

“If you’re going to shoot me,” Simon told him, “stand right in front of me when you do it. Look me in the eyes.” 

The side of Lenny’s mouth curved upwards into a half-smile. He turned once again towards Tony and nodded. Tony walked up to Simon and aimed his rifle downward at Simon’s forehead. “Any last words?” he asked. 

Simon replied, nonchalantly, “You know what another rule of being a saint is?” 

“What’s that?” 

“You have to work miracles.” Using as much force as he could muster, Simon grabbed the rifle’s barrel, forced it to the side, and then immediately kicked Tony hard in the shin. 

Tony cried out and fell backwards, and as luck—or perhaps some guiding hand—willed it, he let go of the rifle. Now armed, Simon fumbled to his feet. He turned the rifle around and pointed it at Tony, who, from the floor, raised his hands in surrender. He then pointed it at Lenny who was standing to the side, and said, “Move. Over there, next to him.” 

Most criminals—even the cold, brutal ones—would have complied, but Lenny simply scoffed and responded with, “So you win again. I might have suspected. I guess someone is looking out for you.” 

“I like to think so, but it never hurts to hold the cards,” Simon said. “If you know anything about me, you know I’m not opposed to using this.” Simon and Lenny both knew he was referring to the rifle. 

“Oh, I know,” Lenny returned. “I’m banking on it.” He took a step forwards, his eyes never leaving Simon’s. “I’m not going to prison.” 

And then he charged at Simon and Simon had no choice but to pull the trigger. The blast echoed within the confines of the room, ringing in Simon’s ears. Simon could even feel it vibrating inside him. The bullet entered Lenny’s chest, just as the bullet that killed his brother had. The power of it lifted him off the floor and sent him flying against the wall. He hit it with a thud and then tumbled into a slumped sitting position, lifeless. 

“So long, Lenny,” Simon said to his corpse. “I’d tell you to send my regards to your brother but I don’t think you’ll be seeing him.” 

He then turned the rifle back on Tony, who hadn’t moved for fear of being shot as well. “On your feet,” Simon demanded. 

Quickly, Tony stood up. “What are you going to do to me?” he asked, his voice trembling. 

Simon had to smile a little. Leave it to the “muscle” of the group—the one who got his hands dirty—to be the one who quaked in the face of possible death. “Nothing,” he replied. “ _You’re_ going to lead me back to the warehouse.” 

*** 

“We’ve searched the entire premises and found nothing,” Chief Inspector Teal told Blanche through the open police car window. “My guess is they’re holding Simon and Amelia somewhere else.” 

Blanche pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Of course they are,” she thought. Why would they keep them here? She knew about the place. They likely had several different hideouts. 

“I want you to think real hard, Mrs. Bateman,” Teal continued. “Lives depend on it. When you spoke with them, did they ever give you any indication as to where they were going—any at all?” 

Blanche didn’t have to think very hard. Her meeting with them was very fresh in her memory. “No,” she said, her tone exhausted. 

“The photograph of Amelia,” Teal said. “Do you remember any details of it—anything in it besides her? Any background details?” 

Blanche recalled the photograph perfectly. Despite only having looked at it for a moment, its image was burned into her brain. It was going to stay with her for a long time, perhaps for the rest of her life. It had been a close-up of Amelia’s face. She was gagged, her eyes slits and her cheeks wet from crying. What little background there was had been too dark to make out anything. 

Blanche shook her head, then leaned back and ran her fingers through her hair. “I need a cigarette,” she said. 

Teal pursed his lips. As a recent ex-smoker, he didn’t particularly care for the idea of someone smoking in his car. But he hadn’t the heart to tell her she couldn’t have one, so he nodded and said, “Whatever you need.” 

While she took a cigarette from her purse, lit it, and started smoking, he glanced back and forth between her and his men, who’d now started branching out from the warehouse into the neighboring streets in search of any clues they might find. He doubted anything would turn up, but there was still a possibility. 

He sighed. It was becoming such a long night, and didn’t look to be ending at any point soon. First, he and his men had gone to Amelia’s grandmother’s house. Once Blanche had relayed to him how Amelia was abducted from there and that, according to the “man in the trench coat,” her grandmother had “needed some persuading,” he’d immediately decided to start there. The woman was lying face-down in her living room, dead from a blow to the temple. Blanche, who had accompanied the police in Teal’s car, burst into tears at the news. She hadn’t known Roy’s mother very well, but the lady had always been kind to her, and plus, Amelia adored her. The poor child had lost both her father and grandmother within a three-week time span, and her mother some years prior. Blanche’s heart broke for her. 

Some of Teal’s men were still at the house, searching it and dusting for prints. 

Teal’s second destination was to the pub, where Blanche had run into Simon. Teal questioned the bartender about the note he’d given to Blanche—the note telling her to go to the warehouse. The bartender said a man slipped it to him and then pointed at Blanche, telling him to hand it to her. The bartender thought nothing of it, assuming it was an offer for a date. Teal asked him to describe the man, and the description he gave fit the crook in the business suit perfectly. Teal asked the bartender more questions but he was unable to give any answers. 

Finally, Teal, Blanche, and the remaining policemen went to the warehouse and searched inside and outside of it, turning up nothing. 

Despite his unstable truce with Simon, Teal found that he was quite worried about him. Simon was capable of taking care of himself, but he wasn’t infallible (much as he liked to pretend to be), and it had always been in the back of Teal’s mind that one day Simon’s luck would run out. He’d trifle with the wrong person and get himself killed. Teal would never admit it to Simon—or anyone at Scotland Yard—but there was a part of him that admired and was grateful to Simon. He didn’t approve of Simon’s criminality, and still had the personal goal of seeing him pay his long overdue debt to society, but he couldn’t deny how instrumental Simon had been to the police force, often handing them crooks on a platter and letting them publicly take the credit. And he found himself wishing that would be the case now. 

“If only Simon had not been captured,” he thought. “If only he could resolve this. If only he could just show up, like he’s always had a knack for, and—” 

Before he even finished his thought, there was Simon, riding in the backseat of a car—not his Volvo, a different one—while a man in an oilskin jacket, who matched the description of one of the crooks, drove. The man parked right next to Teal’s police car. 

As Simon opened his door, Blanche jumped out of Teal’s car and ran over to him. Teal approached him as well, more relieved than he let on. 

“Impeccable timing, Claud,” Simon said. “Allow me to introduce you to Tony here, one of the men responsible for our predicament.” He handed the rifle to Teal. “This is his—or I think it is, anyway. I took it away from him.” 

“Typical Simon,” Teal thought, taking it. 

“Do you know where Amelia is?” Blanche asked. 

“No, but he does,” Simon replied, nodding towards Tony. “I don’t think you’ll have much trouble convincing him to tell you. With a little encouragement, he can be most accommodating.” He turned towards Tony, still inside the car, and said, “You can come out now.” 

Slowly, Tony got out of the car. Blanche glared at him, trembling with rage. Simon placed his hand on her shoulder, then turned back towards Teal. “One of his partners—a man named Lenny Rosado, the leader of this little gang—is dead. He came at me and I had to shoot him. You’ll find his body in the basement of an old house a few kilometers from here. That’s where they held me.” 

As Teal handcuffed Tony and placed him in the backseat of his police car, and then rallied his men to get back in their respective cars, Simon turned to Blanche. “It’s going to be alright, Blanche,” he told her in a reassuring voice. 

“I want to believe that,” she replied, sadly. She swallowed a sob. “They killed my mother-in-law. Hit her over the head in her living room. Amelia loved her so much.” 

Simon winced. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for all of this.” 

“All she has left is me,” Blanche added. 

“And I’m sure she knows you love her. With you in her life, I have good faith that she’ll move past this. It’ll take time, but she’ll be okay.” 

Blanche faced Simon. “What about you?” She reached her hand to his cheek and gently touched it with her fingers. It was bruised and swollen, as was his eye. There was a string of blood running from the side of his mouth. “What did they do to you?” 

“Eh, they roughed me up a bit, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.” 

Blanche grimaced. “It was because of me that this happened to you. I ran and left you, after you tried to help.” 

“Don’t blame yourself for this, Blanche. Given the life I live, I expect things like this to happen. If anything, it was my penance for the pain I caused you all those years ago.” 

“You know,” Blanche said, “I never did understand why they called you a saint. Now I do. No one _less_ than a saint would do what you did for me.” 

Simon smiled, though only slightly as it was painful for him to move his lips. “I do what I can and go where I’m needed,” he said. 

*** 

Amelia was found and, after being evaluated in a hospital, was released to Blanche. Following the funeral for Amelia’s grandmother, Blanche took Amelia to see a psychologist. The psychologist recommended ongoing treatment—which, thankfully, only involved counseling sessions—until she was able to come to terms with the traumas she’d been subjected to. Blanche was worried about Amelia but believed that, with time and healing, she would be okay. 

The three remaining smugglers were caught and brought to justice. When Chief Inspector Teal interrogated Tony, Tony cracked and gave up the other two. They were found and charged, and then all three of them were tried. Both Blanche and Amelia had to testify, as did Teal. The crooks had no chance. They were all convicted. 

The prosecuting attorney had wanted Simon to take the stand, but he was nowhere to be found. It didn’t necessarily matter since there was plenty of evidence to put the crooks behind bars for a long time, but Blanche did find herself wondering where Simon was and what he was up to. 

A few weeks following the trials, once Blanche’s and Amelia’s lives had become more tranquil, Blanche received a mysterious package. There was no return address on it and for a moment Blanche was afraid to open it, fearing that it was from someone who knew Lenny and perhaps wanted revenge for his death. She opened it slowly, with trepidation. When she saw the contents inside, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was filled with stacks of bundled pounds, on top of which was a letter. Blanche knew before reading it who it was from. 

_My dear Blanche_ , it began, _I apologize for not testifying at the trial. Given my reputation, I presumed it would do more harm than good as I’m sure my past would have been called into question. I was not worried, though, as I knew there was more than sufficient evidence to garner convictions. I hope you and Amelia are doing well. I imagine you’re both still shaken by all that’s happened and there are no words to express my sympathy, but I firmly believe that you will both move past it. You’re a strong woman, Blanche, and with you as a motherly figure, I have no doubt Amelia will grow into a strong woman herself._

_You will find eighteen-thousand pounds in this package. When I took the gun from Tony and told him to take me back to the warehouse, he attempted to bribe me. He said he and his partners had twenty-thousand pounds stashed away from a previous operation and that I could have it if I let him go. I wasn’t about to let him go, but I also wasn’t about to let twenty-thousand pounds go to waste, so I had him lead me to it, and after he was arrested I went back for it and hid it somewhere else. I took ten percent for myself, as per my usual, and here is the rest. I’m sure it will come in handy._

_Take care of yourself, Blanche. I hope one day, under better circumstances, we see each other again._

The letter was signed “S.T.” and next to the signature was a hand-drawn stick figure with a halo over its head.


End file.
